


carved out heart

by grapesoda



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Flashbacks, Gen, Swearing, and it went from there, i was really inspired by ch 136 & 137, or at least that was the goal, quinx squad - Freeform, theres a small amount of Urie/Shirazu but its pretty light, theres some violence at the end, this is kind of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 12:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapesoda/pseuds/grapesoda
Summary: Adults didn’t really like Urie. Teachers especially. They said he had a disrespectful look in his eyes and an uncooperative attitude.Urie didn’t care much for them either. What made him dislike his homeroom teacher with a particular bitterness was that fact that she had assigned him to sit next to Takeomi. Takeomi Kuroiwa.Everyday Urie went through a vivid daydream of smashing the guy’s face into a desk. He wondered how long it would take Takeomi’s small brain to understand Urie’s bottomless hate for him. He still had several years to go, Urie figured. Dumbass.





	carved out heart

**Author's Note:**

> i actually,,, hate titles

_ 15 years old  _

_ CCG Ghoul Investigator Training Academy _

 

There were three medals sitting atop the otherwise bare shelf in Urie’s dorm. The first was silver but fairly scratched up and battered. It was pretty plain looking. Urie wasn’t sure what it was for, something about killing a certain amount of ghouls in a year. The second medal was gold, shiny, without a blemish. His father had received it when he put an SS rated ghoul into prison. That victory was the main reason he was promoted to Special Class. Whenever Urie looked at it, his heart sung with pride. He polished it with a special serum every morning. 

The final medal sat in the middle of the other two. It had a shield, decorated with the CCG’s insignia, and a white dove soaring above it. When Urie looked at it, the reflection of his eyes stared back at him, unblinking. It was a medal of valor. Awarded when a respected investigator fell in battle. Urie made sure to polish it every morning as well, although his hand shook a bit while he did it. 

For breakfast, Urie cooked the only things he knew how to make properly: toast and fried eggs. He ate breakfast standing up, while simultaneously buttoning up his uniform and shoving his five different textbooks into his bag. Then he jogged down the four ( _ four _ ) flights of stairs to exit his dorm and past the doorman, who always pestered him with greetings. Urie tried to avoid eye contact at all costs. All it took was one slip-up and he’d get stuck in a painful ten minute chat about the weather or some shit. 

Urie flat out sprinted across the trim cut lawn of the CCG Academy’s campus to the high school building. Despite setting his alarm two hours before class began, he was late every morning. Most of it was due to the fact that he spent his nights studying far past midnight, which then caused him to sleep through several alarms. And every morning he cursed and shoved the clock off his nightstand, and the shrill clanging noise it made when it hit the floor made him grit his teeth together hard enough to make his jaw crack. Urie was  _ not  _ a morning person. 

His class was 1A, for the gifted students. He didn’t know any of their names, and when he walked in the classroom they all ducked their heads and whispered. Urie kept his eyes trained forward, ignoring it. His homeroom teacher, a middle aged woman with premature wrinkles, sniffed and turned her back to him. 

Adults didn’t really like Urie. Teachers especially. They said he had a disrespectful look in his eyes and an uncooperative attitude. 

Urie didn’t care much for them either. Both his teachers and his classmates at the Academy. They were nuisances with nothing to offer. What made him dislike his homeroom teacher with a particular bitterness was that fact that she had assigned him to sit next to Takeomi _.  _ Takeomi Kuroiwa. 

Everyday Urie went through a vivid daydream of smashing the guy’s face into a desk. As Urie passed, Takeomi greeted him enthusiastically, a big smile on his face. Urie rolled his eyes. He wondered how long it would take Takeomi’s small brain to understand Urie’s bottomless hate for him. He still had several years to go, Urie figured. Dumbass. 

Takeomi was Kuroiwa’s son. Kuroiwa was the asshole responsible for his father’s death. (Teachers also often scolded Urie for his foul and inappropriate language) It was too inconvenient for Urie to make a (public) enemy Kuroiwa at this point, so Takeomi was the next best option. If Takeomi scored a 95 on a test, Urie had to get a 100. If Takeomi took down five opponents in sparring, Urie pushed himself to take down ten. If Takeomi’s hand-to-hand combat skills were great, Urie’s were flawless. It was more than rivalry. With each victory, his father’s death was one step closer to being avenged. Another jug of oil was poured into the smoking, coal black fire in his chest. 

The only unsatisfying thing about crushing Takeomi was that he never seemed to mind losing. He’d just scratch the back of his head and huff out a laugh - then he’d make some comment like  _ Wow, Urie sure is talented.  _ What kind of manipulate asshole says something like that? Did he want Urie to hit him? Urie didn’t need his shitty attempts at flattery. 

Usually after those exchanges he would slip on his earbuds and stalk off, turning up the volume until he couldn’t hear Takeomi’s voice any longer. 

 

\---

 

_ 18 years old  _

_ The Chateau _

 

Urie leaned halfway through the doorway to the chateau, searching the living area for any possible annoyances. Kitchen: clear. Dining table: clear. Living room: clear. He was safe. He hauled the wooden easel inside and pulled the door closed with his foot. The thing had been a pain to haul from the art supply store to here, especially without any witnesses. 

It wasn’t like Urie cared what anyone thought. If anyone had anything to say about his painting, they could say it to his face. He simply didn’t want any questions about it. Urie hated questions. He hated a lot of things, but questions were at the top of his list. Along with a certain Ginshi Shirazu. The moron was the reason Urie had to buy an easel in the first place.

First of all, Urie wasn’t used to living with other people. He had lived alone in the dorms since middle school. No one nagged him about eating proper meals, or spending time with others, or going to sleep at a decent hour. He’d return from class, study at his own pace, reheat something frozen for dinner, and live in peace. On weekends he never even needed to leave his room. Now he had all sorts of people knocking on his door and asking him things. Mutsuki, saying  _ Won’t you join us for dinner?  _ with his giant, uncomfortable-yet-soothing doe eyes. Saiko, begging him to drive her to pick up a new game. Shirazu, spouting nonsense like  _ let’s watch the game, check out this babe, play soccer with me.  _ The worst was when Sasaki knocked on his door, lightly but with purpose.  _ Urie, review these documents with me. What do you think about this?  _ Urie would sigh with frustration and question why Sasaki couldn’t do it his own damn self. He wanted silence. Perfect, uninterrupted silence. He had to spend the whole day in meetings, talking to investigators and pretending like he respected them. He had to put up with Kuroiwa’s impersonal yet pitying nod in the CCG’s busy hallways. Urie needed a break at the end of the day. And, somehow, painting put him at ease. Maybe it was related to how he practically stabbed at the canvas with his brush. Splatters of red, shards of gray, wide strokes of blue. It all came together fluidl, and Urie had total control over it.  

Sometimes, when he was fighting a ghoul and his blood pumped in his ears and he couldn’t hear the screams and bones breaking around him, his koukaku felt like a paintbrush. He swung it smoothly and slashed the ghoul cleanly. The red that splattered out was the exact shade of crimson as the tube of acrylic he had at the chateau.

The day Shirazu broke his easel Urie had been painting, in the solace of his bedroom, earbuds blasting at full volume. (Urie was fairly open when it came to music - but his favorite genre was rap. The heavy bass lines rang in his ears for several days after) He’d been using vivid crimson, leaving bright streaks across the top of the canvas. 

He sucked in a breath when a hand slapped the back of his head. The tiny yelp of surprise he let escape was one he would never live down. He ripped out his earbuds and whipped around to see Shirazu standing there, running a hand through his shaggy pink hair and grinning. 

“Damn Uri! Did you really just scream like a little girl?” 

Urie shot him a foul glare, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a hard line. He’d only screamed because Shirazu had scared the  _ literal shit  _ out of him. 

“Well, I was gonna ask you to check out this weird-ass reality TV show I found, but I can see you’re, ya know, in the zone or whatever.” Shirazu rolled back his shoulders. Somehow, his grin stretched wider when Urie rolled his eyes. No matter how rude his was to Shirazu the guy constantly kept coming to him for pointless chatter like this. 

(But if he thought about it more, it made sense. Saiko was usually cooped up in her room gaming, Sasaki constantly had a mountain of paperwork on his desk (what a pushover), and Mutsuki couldn’t be more opposite to Shirazu if he tried. Shirazu didn’t really have anyone to come to for stupid nonsense except for Urie. Unfortunately.) 

And, annoyingly, Shirazu never needed Urie to respond to him. He carried their conversations singlehandedly, like Urie’s expressions alone made enough of a statement without him ever needing to open his mouth. Knowing he was probably in for a long chat, Urie set down his paintbrush. He noted, in the back of his mind, that his fingertips were completely paint stained. 

Shirazu stepped forward and elbowed Urie out of the way. Urie tightened his muscles, transforming into a statue-like form. Shirazu coughed out a laugh. 

“ _ Move _ , I’m tryin’ to see your angry emo art.” Urie gave him a shove for that. Shirazu shoved him back. Soon they were all but body slamming each other, Urie gritting his teeth in frustration and Shirazu cackling like an excited kid. Urie never understood how Shirazu was always able to drag him into childish shit like this. After a particularly rough shove from Urie, Shirazu wobbled backward and crashed straight into the canvas. Urie could only flinch at the terrible cracking noise of the easel’s cheap joints splitting apart. Shirazu ended up flat on his ass, his elbow puncturing through the center of the canvas. He looked up at Urie with eyebrows high, trying to judge Urie’s reaction. 

“You” Urie clenched a fist, “are the most idiotic, uncoordinated person I’ve ever met.” Shirazu’s mouth turned into a frown and he pushed himself up into a stand. He pulled the canvas off of his elbow and held it out in front of him. 

“This could be like...modern art or somethin’, right? Don’t they poke holes and shit in art on purpose?” He surveyed the destroyed canvas at several different angles, as if that would fix the problem. 

“Shut up.” It was obviously damaged beyond repair. “Give me 3,000 yen.” Urie held out a hand. Shirazu’s face went blank.

“What?! You think I got that kinda money?” 

“That’s how much an easel costs.” Urie said, face deadpan. Shirazu swore under his breath and glanced down at the sad remains of the easel. 

“The thing’s totally busted, huh…” He sighed, eyebrows pushed together. “Alright, I’ll scrape together the cash.” 

Urie blinked. He hadn’t been serious when he suggested Shirazu pay for the replacement. Urie was the one who caused him to fall on it after all. He had no idea Shirazu was such a pushover. 

Shirazu backed out of the room, muttering about dipping into his trusty savings account. Urie knew for a fact that Shirazu kept every cent he owned in his sock drawer, shoved in a tube sock that dated back to his middle school days. Saiko had found the sock several months ago and naturally informed everyone in the chateau about the discovery. There could only have been about 100,000 yen tucked away. 

Didn’t Shirazu have a sick sister or something? That amount of yen could barely cover staying at the hospital overnight. No wonder the guy wore the same three shirts on repeat. 

Shirazu visited the hospital religiously, bringing flowers and chocolate and the like. It was a waste of time. There was no cure for ROS. 

 

Urie set his alarm early the next morning. Too early for a Saturday. The smell of greasy bacon hung heavy in the air - Mutsuki or Sasaki must be cooking breakfast. Urie silently hoped that it was Mutsuki. Mutsuki was easy to brush off. Sasaki was more difficult, didn’t back down as quickly. Urie disliked Sasaki from the start. How could a  _ ghoul  _ become a ghoul investigator? Nothing about it made sense; it was ridiculous. And he was  _ so favored  _ by Arima Kishou, the greatest investigator to live, and Akira Mado, the prodigy daughter of Kureo Mado. It came so easily to Sasaki. Just looking at him made bile rise in Urie’s mouth. Every order he was forced to follow made him feel like an insolent dog bowing its head to its master. 

Urie had to work for everything that he accomplished. Getting accepted into the Academy, working his way into the Honors Program, becoming a member of the Q’s. Every promotion was due to his hard work. No one ever helped him. If anything they stood in his way. The Quinx squad definitely did. He still wasn’t over the fact that Sasaki (that idiot) had (infuriatingly) made Shirazu squad leader. All because Urie hadn’t followed orders. It wasn’t like he had been slacking off - he had been fighting Serpent. Retreating wasn’t an option. His father died because Kuroiwa and the rest had retreated, leaving his father to fight alone. Urie refused to be a coward like Kuroiwa, like Shirazu and the other Quinx. And yet Shirazu was the one to get promoted.

Losing the squad leader position left a hollowness in his stomach. It made him curl into himself like an injured animal, his bed and sheets a protective nest. But, he wouldn’t allow himself mope for long. He dragged himself up, brushed his broken, abandoned heart into the dusty cupboard where it belonged, and moved on. 

Painting helped him. It calmed him, gave him a place to vent. Which was why getting the damn easel was his top priority. He couldn’t let whoever was in the kitchen stop him. Urie briskly walked through the living space of the chateau, past the kitchen (Mutsuki’s head popped up when Urie went by, but before he could say anything, Urie was already gone), and out the door. Urie slammed the door behind him and let out a small sigh. He really did prefer living alone. 

Picking up the easel was simple. When Urie swung it up with one arm, the cashier at the art supply store gave him an open mouthed look. Urie kept moving. Civilians were as annoying as they were useless. The easel barely fit into the back of the CCG issued car the Quinx were supposed to share. (Five people, one car? Really?) Still, Urie was determined. 

All of this had led to Urie hauling the easel through the chateau. Finally he managed to get it into his room, miraculously without interruption. His room was practically empty, the only furniture a bed and nightstand, which left an empty corner for painting. On the shelf above his bed, three medals glowed in the bits of sunlight that escaped through Urie’s blinds. Urie was setting up the easel when Shirazu burst through his door (he never, ever knocked) waving several bills.

“Uri! I got your money!” 

“You took too long. I bought it already.” 

Shirazu’s mouth dropped open.  “For real? It’s been a  _ night.  _ Nine hours.” 

Urie turned back to the easel and pulled it up into place. It was actually a bit taller than his old one. More to his eye level. He wondered what he should paint next - there was a stack of untouched canvases shoved under his bed. 

“So...I don’t owe you 2,000 yen?” Shirazu’s mouth began to pull into another spike-toothed grin. Urie was silent. “I’ll take that as a yes.” The money disappeared into the pocket of Shirazu’s jeans. With a shrug, Shirazu left the room. 

Finally, it was quiet. 

 

\---

 

_ 20 years old _

_CCG National Cemetery: 1st Ward_ _Location_

 

It was quiet, at the funeral. It took place in the evening, and as the procession entered the cemetery, the sky was layered in oranges and pinks. A couple puffs of clouds drifted here and there, like tiny flecks of paint. The grass was dried and patchy, and the trees had shed their leaves. A crisp, cool breeze ruffled Urie’s long black coat. He had to buy it for the funeral. His black button down had gone missing the week before, leaving him without anything to wear. It was inconvenient and costly, but Urie did it regardless. 

Saiko was sobbing, taking heavy, shaking breaths. It had started in the church and never stopped since. Urie knew she would cry through the night as well. Mutsuki would comfort her then. He wasn’t really up for it. His stomach didn’t feel hollow, but rather full. Full of cold ice, sadness and loneliness. 

There was something about the quiet. It wasn’t disturbed by Saiko. It was something else. An absence. Shirazu’s voice, which he realized he would never hear again. Shirazu’s room, which Urie couldn’t step foot in. Shirazu’s stupid, horribly sour protein shakes, which were still in the fridge, untouched. Shirazu’s soap, labeled for ‘ladykillers,’ which sat in the shower rack, cap left open. Shirazu’s body, which had been taken by Aogiri scum. 

They buried an empty casket. Apparently Mutsuki said a few words, and Mado. There were a few small bouquets tossed in as well. Saiko had brought a candle, but forgot matches. Sasaki hadn’t made an appearance. Urie hadn’t expected him to show up, but it still felt like a snub. Sasaki had transformed into a completely different person, all thoughts of the Quinx behind him. Asshole. 

But this wasn’t about Sasaki. 

Urie hadn’t been able to look at the actual grave site. It felt off, incomplete. He stood far from the other mourners, looking out from the cemetery, at the dark shapes of the city. One day he’d find Shirazu’s body and bury it properly. Shirazu deserved that. And everyone else deserved the peace of mind. 

It was so quiet that Urie didn’t even hear Mutsuki come up behind him. Wordlessly, he crouched and sat on the yellowed grass, deep green hair ruffled from the wind. Urie’s reflex had been annoyance, a sense of intrusion, and clenched his fist in his coat pocket. After a minute, however, his whole body relaxed, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. 

The presence of Mutsuki made him breathe. It made him remember that this was real. It wasn’t a nightmare, or a hallucination. Shirazu was dead. Urie was the squad leader. He was now responsible for the lives of the Quinx: Mutsuki and Saiko. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t lose another person. 

Urie stood until his legs ached. 

The sky lost its color, gradually. The brilliant, burning colors bled out into a deep purple-blue shade. The stars were in their usual places, but they sparkled cruelly, as if nothing had happened. The breeze became colder, and soon Urie could hear Mutsuki’s teeth chattering. 

“Let’s go back.” 

Mutsuki turned to look at Urie, his green brows curved gently, questioning. “Are you sure?” He stretched his arms, as though he could sit there for several more hours, even though Urie knew he must be freezing. 

“Yeah.” He paused. “Saiko’s probably worried.”

Mutsuki smiled softly, his eyes warm. “You’re probably right.” 

They returned to the chateau. 

 

\---

 

_ 21 years old  _

_ CCG Main Office _

 

When Urie felt the burning, impossible pain of that asshole’s kagune pierce his stomach and neck, the spurt of blood hack out of his mouth and down his lips and chin, his only thought was  _ careless.  _ He was being careless when he absolutely could not be. Furuta was one fucked up guy, one who would pull any trick necessary to win, no matter how foolish, violent, or inhumane. Urie wanted him dead.

The man, supposed bureau chief of the CCG, had taken things too far. Trying to exterminate all the ghouls, executing innocent humans...it was wrong. It felt deeply wrong, so much that forced him to chase Saiko in the darkness of night just to bring her back home with a promise of becoming fugitives. A year ago, he would have  _ never,  _ ever considered leaving the CCG, much less betraying them. It was unthinkable. Yet the words left his mouth sure as ever. All to bring Saiko home again.

In a way, they were the only ones left. Mutuski had joined Suzuya squad and, also, fallen off the fucking deep end. Sasaki was running around leading some kind of ghoul mafia. And Shirazu...Shirazu hadn’t been around for a while now. 

The state of the CCG had also driven Urie to team up with  _ Kuroiwa.  _ Of all the people willing to betray the CCG, it had to be goddamn Kuroiwa. Urie did not appreciate the irony. The alliance between them was what lead Urie to stand side-by-side with the man responsible for his father’s death, ready to face Furuta and his two S+ rated accomplices. Unbelievable. 

 

Those were the thoughts running, albeit jaggedly, through Urie’s mind as his body was tossed to the floor like a wasted corpse. Furuta was spouting nonsense that Urie couldn’t quite make out; there was a ringing in his ears like someone had fired a shotgun inches from his head. Kuroiwa was somewhere nearby. With the tiniest twinge of guilt, Urie resigned himself to the fact that Kuroiwa would have to take it from here. Unless he starting healing soon (it sure was taking its goddamn time), he was dead in minutes. The blood streaming from his mouth formed a puddle underneath his cheek. His entire body was stiff, immobile. He was useless. There was no way Kuroiwa could take down all three ghouls. Roma and Shikorae were dangerous as is, and who knew what Furuta was capable of. Kuroiwa needed Urie’s help.

His stomach muscles clenched and unclenched around his wound, trying to understand how there was nothingness where flesh and blood used to thrive. He strained his eyes to focus on what was happening in front of him. 

Kuroiwa was there, back strong and squared like a bull’s, ready to take on all three of the ghouls singlehandedly. Yeah, right. Urie tried to call out to him, but his vocal chords were barely held together by a stretch of tissue. More blood burst from his lips. It was disgusting. The blood, and Kuroiwa’s willingness to protect him. There was no way Urie would live through this. Kuroiwa could still escape. He was acting like a fool, trying to play the hero. Urie wanted to call out to him, berate him for wasting his time.  _ Save yourself. Please.  _

He had be so willing to abandon Urie’s father, all those years ago. But now he was immovable. 

Urie clenched his teeth in frustration and pushed down the scream rising in his throat.  

He needed to stand up and get his body moving. That would get his RC cells into gear. He wished he had something to eat, but that was simply a wish. Life had never been that gratifying. His eyes drifted closed, and with a shudder, he heard Shirazu’s voice. His last words.  _ “Enough bullets for ya, Urie?”  _ He saw Shirazu’s flippant smile, smelled his obnoxious ‘ladykiller’ soap. It was woodsy, with hints of spice. Urie curled in on himself, forming a tight ball. 

He cried out like a child, begged Shirazu not to leave him, alive, unable to change. Everything he did kept him speeding down the same path. He held his own against Donato, got promoted, escaped Matsuri at last. People even whispered that he might become a Special Class. Yet his chest felt hollow, fragile, one hit and he would crumple, fail. What was he fighting for?

He saw the Q’s together in the chateau, even Sasaki, laughing over a steaming dinner. He saw Shirazu with a full head of hair, long and untamable, before it was all buzzed off. Mutsuki smiled up at him, cheeks round and pink tinged. The memories became fuzzy, unfocused, bloodstained. Urie smelled something foul: a thought that had been sitting in the back of his mind for so long it had begun to decay and eventually sink into its own permanent grave. A thought that was six feet under, locked up tight in a shiny marble casket. 

 

If Shirazu hadn’t died, maybe things would be better. Maybe Sasaki would’ve stayed. Maybe Mutuski wouldn’t have changed. Maybe everyone would still be together, smiling. Urie trembled. Even thinking the thought was too much to bear. Shirazu was dead. 

Dead. Forever. There was nothing that he could do about it. Urie shoved the thought aside like the worthless garbage it was.

Takeomi surfaced in Urie’s mind next. His naive smile, simple life, beautiful bride. He looked so much like his (still living) father. It always came back to that bastard. Everything was his fault. His fault. His fault his fault his fault his fault - 

 

His fault.

It was Urie’s fault. 

 

His whole life, the reason for all of his bitterness, his resentment so strong it burned in his throat like acid, was himself. 

Urie inhaled sharply. Mixed scents, blood, sweat, floor polish, greeted him. He opened his eyes. The scream that had been trapped in his heart for so long ripped free. His lungs burned. His throat, newly healed, was already raw. Urie swung to his feet and smashed into the first thing he laid eyes on: Shikorae. 

The dried blood on Urie’s lips and mouth tasted salty sweet. His muscles and bones and kagune cried out in pain but also excitement, like an animal caged for decades finally allowed to run free. 

Shikorae was a swift finish, his arm tossed backwards, useless and dismembered. Urie blew past him and ran forward to reach Kuroiwa. Except that something tugged on his ankle, and the world was upside down, and then it was black and warm. Womblike. 

That fucking frog-clown monstrosity had  _ eaten  _ him. 

Urie sharpened his kagune and swung his arms upward. The monster split open easily, as if its skin was thin paper. Blood rained down, slicked through his hair and pattered against his cheeks. Urie inhaled deeply. His heart beat ferociously. Energy balled in his joints, coursed through his veins, but he was in control. Each muscle was tightly restrained, unmoving without his permission, down to the very last cell. His eyes zeroed in on Kuroiwa; the old man was steadily leaking out dark blood. Shit. Urie hadn’t even noticed he got injured. 

Urie caught Kuroiwa in his arms, taking account of his injuries. Fucking Furuta and his lackeys, cutting up an old man like that. They had no humanity left, even for ghouls. Although, Urie was beginning to think Furuta didn’t have any humanity to begin with. That guy had been suspicious from the start, prancing around with a sickening smile on his face. It made Urie’s stomach turn. Furuta’s two-faced, erratic behavior reminded him of kakuja ghouls, driven mad by the all the souls they had consumed. It reminded him of himself, when he lost control, framed out and pumped full of RC cells. Urie tightened his grip on Kuroiwa and faced his opponents. 

Their attacks were so predictable, so easy to dodge. He thrust his kagune out and molded it into a gigantic shield, efficiently blocking all attacks from Roma and Shikorae. He wasn’t sure why he had commanded his kagune into this form, reminiscent of a shield a knight would hold. It was a reflex, mindless as curling his fingers into a fist or using his quinque to slice through an enemy. But it worked. He managed to protect Kuroiwa, who was lying on the tile floor as Urie had been minutes ago. He was bleeding far too much. Urie’s steadily beating heart stuttered for the first time. He wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead and ran to Kuroiwa’s side. 

“I am truly sorry,” Kuroiwa began. His voice was more gravelly than usual and his breaths were labored. “It’s my fault that I couldn’t protect your father-” 

“It’s,” Urie took a breath. He needed to say it, finally, after so much time holding back. “It’s not your fault!” The words came out loud, strong, sure. Urie had finally found the truth. It was clear, sharp, as real as Kuroiwa in front of him. “It isn’t anyone’s fault.” 

It might not even be Urie’s fault. 

He had been weak in the past. A pitiful child crying over his father’s death. A vengeful child with no other explanation except: ‘It was a part of his job. He knew the risks. He died with valor.’  What child would accept that? What child could process that? It was no wonder he grew up a pissy, frustrated brat. 

Urie was grown now.

He took in all the tortured thoughts he used to have and set them down to rest. He envisioned himself, about ten years old, sobbing, snot pouring from his nose. He was destroyed. Not yet angry, but sad. Confused. Lonely. Searching for some kind of logic or explanation to cling to. Urie leaned down and took the kid’s hand. It was clammy. Even now his hands still got clammy when he cried. 

He knew what to do. He knew how to live on. 

Dimly, he thought of Saiko. 

 

“You really are like your father.” Kuroiwa croaked. His eyes were round but stern.  Kuroiwa was strong. He was built strong, with his impossibly squared shoulders, large, daruma-like eyes, bushy brows, wide nose. He was warm in Urie’s arms. Kuroiwa opened his mouth once more, but then-

A blade.

A blade ran through Kuroiwa’s neck, silencing anything Kuroiwa might’ve said. Those black eyes kept staring straight into Urie’s own, and he couldn’t tell whether the man was alive or dead. For a second, Urie was unable to breathe. His arms, wrapped around Kuroiwa, shook wildly. His brain was numb and useless inside his skull. He screamed. 

He’d kill Furuta. He saw it, slicing through Furuta’s organs with his kagune, bashing the heel of his shoe straight through Furuta’s forehead, letting his blood and brain fluid spill onto the checked floor. Fury, disbelief, dread, horror all wrecked Urie’s body and made his bones shake. He almost vomited. But as soon as his rage was awakened, as soon as he felt his sanity start to slip, it all stopped. A gunshot rang out through the room. 

It echoed on and on. Smoked fizzed in the air and the scent of gunpowder singed his lungs. Furuta fell. Then, impossibly, Furuta jumped up, only to get pummeled with about five hundred more bullets. It would’ve been laughable had Urie been able form even one coherent thought. Kuroiwa was heavy in his arms. 

Furuta fled outside the building and several investigators sprang up behind him. Urie looked down at Kuroiwa once more. Maurde (where the hell had he come from?) leaned over his shoulder. 

Gently, drowsily, Kuroiwa’s eyelids drifted shut. He huffed out one last breath. Then his body went limp. Urie’s chest ached like a hand had reached in and tore away his flesh and ribs, leaving his beating heart exposed. 

Urie sniffed. Swallowed a lump of saliva and blood. Forced his legs to push himself up into a stand. Kuroiwa was gone (just like Shirazu). He would never return. But Urie was able to tell him the truth. He was able to forgive Kuroiwa. He had never felt so light, so free. Urie turned toward the backup squad, ready to face whatever shit the world was going to throw at him next. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this was really fun to write like...just expanding on uri's character and what's canon was really cool to do. i feel like my boy needs more love he's come so far!!  
> let me know what you thought in the comments, i'd love to hear it!


End file.
